The Next Great Adventure
by River-Pondicus
Summary: After three years, John Watson thinks he is ready to move on. But maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to. Sherlock/John, fluffy, nothing explicit. Reunionfic.


John walked the familiar pathway with practiced ease, his light footsteps following the same tempo as his steadily beating heart. The chill January air bit at his face and fingers. But he didn't care. Not about the chill, not about his beating heart, not about anything.

He closed his eyes and stopped abruptly. He didn't need to look to see where he was. He didn't need sight to know he was there, again. He didn't need a mind to know that he was hoping, again. Hoping that today, he would open his eyes and be looking at a man rather than a useless slab of stone.

His eyes opened.

He would never get used to the sight of seeing that name, no matter how intricately he memorized it. Those simple, neat letters carved into the gleaming black stone. So simple, so mundane, so ordinary, so monotone. Such an inaccurate portrayal of the man that it had been designed to represent.

"Three years, Sherlock."

John let out a raspy breath.

"Three years. My psychiatrist says I should let go. Says I should… move on."

He stopped, chuckling and bowing his head.

"As if I ever could."

Silence fell. John sighed and moved forward slightly, clumsily setting himself down in front of the grave, his ankles crossed and his elbows resting on his knees.

"Mary's doing well. She wants to get married, but… Well, she's nice. I like her."

More silence.

"…I miss you. Life's been very… boring."

He chuckled again, remembering simpler times, times when getting bored meant shooting walls and putting heads in refrigerators and solving crimes and-

He cleared his throat.

"Your things are still in your room. I have no idea what to do with them. I've kept your skull on the mantlepiece, though. I talk to it, sometimes. Ask it questions. For some reason, it never answers."

John could hear the cars in the background, just barely. They felt so close, but so distant. All the normal people, going about their business, as if nothing had ever happened. As if the greatest man in the world hadn't disappeared, as if everything were normal, unbroken.

"The press, they forgot about you. So did everyone else. Mycroft hushed up your death very effectively. Deleted our blogs. Like nothing ever happened. We're just those two blokes that were in the news for a bit, a few years ago."

"Lestrade still calls, sometimes. Asks my advice. I'm not you, but… He doesn't believe you were a fraud. And I still… I don't either."

John cleared his throat again and stood up, wiping the dirt off of himself and sniffling. He straightened his back in a very military fashion and clasped his hands in front of him, his feet shoulder width apart.

"Anyways, I just wanted to say… Goodbye. I-I won't be coming here again. Too painful. It's not healthy."

He bit his bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood, his eyes shut tightly. He willed himself not to cry, willed himself not to scream in agony, willed himself to let go of his feelings and stay composed."

"And- and I just wanted to say, before I go… I just wanted… I just wanted to say that- that I… I love you. And I miss you, and I wish I had told you sooner but I didn't and here I am."

His voice cracked on the last few words, and the tears forced their way down his face.

Oh, how he wished he had said it sooner. Or at least admitted it to himself. Allowed himself. If only he could go back in time, if only, if only, if only-

"John."

He felt a warm, slender hand grasp his shoulder and his breath hitched in his throat. His heart leaped up to his neck, pounding throughout his entire body. He was imagining things. He was going crazy, he must be. This wasn't real. Nothing was real. Was he dreaming?

Slowly, he turned around.

It was him. His ridiculous cheekbones, he shocking blue eyes, his tousled black hair. His lips were parted ever so slightly, his brow furrowed upward. He was as pale and as dark and as stunning as ever.

John stood rooted on the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe. His emotions were crashing together like waves inside of him, as if a hurricane had brewed in his heart, causing nothing short of chaos.

He was sad, and overjoyed, and angry, and sympathetic, and confused, and understanding, and so, so very many other things. His eyes traveled up and down Sherlock's body, taking in the sight of his long lost friend, confirming that he was really there,

They locked eyes. Blue met brown, cold met warm, and for a moment, neither could hear or see anything beyond each other.

"I've… I've missed you."

"I suppose I have too. Missed you, I mean."

Sherlock reached down, touching John's hand lightly. John moved his hand up Sherlock arm to his shoulder. He was there, he was really there. Breathing and moving and living and thinking.

They stood like that for a long moment, taking each other in, ignoring the world around them.

And the next thing John knew, Sherlock's hands were grabbing his waist, pulling him, and Sherlock was leaning down, and then their lips met. It was slow at first, Sherlock fumbling slightly, not used to the physical contact.

But John was guiding him, and in seconds they were perfect attuned to each others movements. John moved his hands up to grab Sherlock's messy black hair, and Sherlock moved his own to John's waist. The kissing escalated, and they were moving faster, their bodies pressed together, their combined heat fighting off the chill of the air that was blowing around them.

John moved his hands down to cup Sherlock's face, his tongue sliding over Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but obliged. John slid into Sherlock's mouth carefully, their tongues flicking against each other lightly. Sherlock let out a low, barely audible growl.

They pulled apart for a moment, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock, promise me something."

"What, exactly?"

"Promise me that you will never leave again, you stupid, irresistible wanker."

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile.

"I promise."

John pulled back, grabbing Sherlock's hand.

"Welcome home, Sherlock."

They walked out of the cemetery together. Of course, there were still questions to be asked, arguments to be had, reunions to be made. But they were going to get through it together, and that's what mattered.

Their next great adventure had only just begun.


End file.
